


Family

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Series: Hawk of the Marches [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Halward Pavus Being an Asshole, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Past Abuse, Redcliffe, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Titles in this part come from Noah Gundersen's "Family"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Say Something Awful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have received a letter from a Lord Halward Pavus, a Magister of Tevinter, in regards to the whereabouts of his son.” Mother Giselle's face is wreathed with concern--but where in the past Mira has felt benevolence from this woman, there is a falsehood here hidden in her eyes. “He is concerned that his son is here with the Inquisition, and hopes that the young man may be convinced to return home.”
> 
> When Mira reads the letter from Halward Pavus, it hits a little too close to home.

Mother Giselle is waiting for her in the Great Hall when she returns from the Hinterlands. Mira is indulgent, feeling bolstered by the much improved turn their adventure had taken after her conversation with Cassandra--even the significant look Solas had given her when he arrived to replace Sera did not deter her. She smiles at the Mother, tilting her head encouragingly. “Mother Giselle, what can I do for you? Are the people well?”

The Mother’s lined face crinkles gravely, her hands folded into her sleeves. “Inquisitor, I must...forgive me, but I have troubling news.” 

Mira’s posture straightens as a hint of dread returns, curling through her. She has only just returned from the Hinterlands--has just been in the Crossroads. What could possibly have already gone to shit? 

“I have received a letter from a Lord Halward Pavus, a Magister of Tevinter, in regards to the whereabouts of his son.” The Mother’s face is wreathed with concern--but where in the past Mira has felt benevolence from this woman, there is a falsehood here hidden in her eyes. “He is concerned that his son is here with the Inquisition, and hopes that the young man may be convinced to return home.”

Mira tenses, her mouth firming in a line, brows drawing together. “And why has this man reached out to you? I wasn’t aware that the southern Chantry was in contact with northern schismatics.”

Mother Giselle makes gestures of appeasement. “I believe this Magister hopes that I may prevail upon you to help reunite a family, that is all. I am a simple holy woman, Inquisitor--it is easier to approach me.”

 _I’ve never heard so much bullshit in my life_. Mira studies the Mother’s face, filled with disbelief that the woman could be so credulous, but also stunned by the implications if this request comes from a place of duplicity. She had thought the Mother to be a firm moderate--had only allowed her to become so ingrained in the daily rhythms of Skyhold, and Haven before it, because of this assumption.

Mother Giselle continues, “I have the letter here for you, Inquisitor. Because of the tenuous nature of the relationship, this Magister Pavus believes it best that the young man not be told, but only escorted to the meeting in Redcliffe. I hope that you make the right decision.”

Given the suspicions swirling through her mind, Mira shouldn’t let her emotions color her voice and expression so obviously, but she can’t help herself. Dorian had barely scratched the surface of his family difficulties in their conversations, but the pain had been obvious to her--obvious in a way only another with comparable experiences might recognize.

“I won’t lie to Dorian, or trick him into going to this meeting, if that’s what you think.”

Mother Giselle looks disappointed in her, as if she has done something foolish, like a willful child. Mira can feel a tremor of anger working its way through her, and tries to suppress it. “I’ll take this letter, and judge for myself. I would appreciate it if you would leave it to me to carry out any arrangements.”

“Yes, Inqui--”

Mira has already turned on her heel, seeking the door to Solas’ rotunda like an arrow loosed from her own bow, the heavy vellum envelope crimping in her clenched fist. The tremor is still there, making her breath short and her heart race, and she stills just inside the door, within sight of Solas at his desk, and wrenches the parchment free to read the letter with hard eyes.

_The thought of Dorian in the south, placing himself in the path of such danger, alarms us more than I can express...He will bring the boy to us, somewhere private..._

Mira bites the inside of her lip savagely, tasting blood.

\--  _You selfish, willful little bitch! YOU ARE ALL THAT REMAINS OF THIS LINE. Your mother died for the Marches, and you would throw your life away for ELVES and FERELDAN DOGS_  --

The clatter of a palette falling from a precarious perch on the corner of Solas’ desk echoes the crack of the whip in her memory, as her father sent the two-seat gig careening along the country lane, and Mira gasps brokenly, her knees weakening, parchment crumpling in the spasm of her fist.

“Inquisitor?” Solas’ soft voice approaches, and she wrenches her head back, yellow eyes wild as a wounded wolf.

“Don’t,” she snarls.

Alarm flickers for the barest instant across his impassive face, before he stills and holds out a pacifying hand, palm open. “Peace, Miraphora.” He says her full name with an odd accent on the vowels.

She can feel shame and tears burning in the corners of her eyes and shakes her head violently. “Don’t. I’m sorry. Just--let me pass.”

He retreats from the archway, standing well aside, but watching--waiting--studying. She gives him a wide berth, hurrying for the stairwell to the library. 

She lies to herself that the stairs have made her breathless, one flight, a paltry stumble up an incline. Dorian is standing before a shelf just ahead of the landing, his arms crossed in the exasperation of a stymied scholar as he peruses the spines of the bound volumes. Mira fetches up against the nearest end of a bookcase, eyes downcast, trying to be calm, to be centered, to find the well of stillness that enables her to draw a bow, to loose an arrow. 

_It’s just a fucking letter. Just a concerned father who wants to see his son. Not everything is as absolutely fucked as the darkness at the center of your heart._

“The treatment of this collection is just shameful, you know. Look at this! Scrolls stuffed into every free space, folios ON THEIR SPINES side by side with cheaply-bound octavos. It’s enough to drive any civilized man mad.” Dorian tilts his head toward her at the end of this tirade, eyes cutting sidelong to gauge her ability to follow his scholarly nattering--and widening expressively at the sight of her blotchy complexion and hunched shoulders.

“Mira.” He takes in the fine tremor working through her rangy frame and the parchment crumpled in her fist. “Has something happened?”

“You have a letter.” Her voice is flat.

Dorian arches a brow, a quip on the tip of his tongue. “A naughty letter?” His voice is teasing, but even he doesn’t feel it, not really. She is clearly distressed about something--the Inquisitor, the woman who tramped through a lyrium-infested hell at his side, who faced Corypheus and lived to trek through miles of empty blizzard wasteland to return to her Inquisition. She is trembling.

Mira makes a massive effort to bring herself under control, to maintain some semblance of composure. “From your father.”

Dorian shifts his weight back onto one foot. “Ah. My father. And what does dear Magister Halward want, pray tell?”

“To see you, apparently. The south is quite uncivilized, you know. And I am a dangerous, polarizing influence. He’s concerned.” Her mouth twists into a wry smile, and she glances up at him.

“Concerned! My father. Let me see this letter.”

Dorian doesn’t understand what has Mira so shaken, but when she murmurs an embarrassed apology for the state of the parchment he makes a casually dismissive noise and shakes the letter out ostentatiously.

And is nearly immediately suffused with indignation. “’I know my son’? What my father “knows” about me would barely fill a thimble! This is so typical!”

Mira watches him pace and rattle the parchment, arms crossed over her chest in a posture that she prays seems casual, but is currently holding her self together. 

“I’m willing to bet this “retainer” is just some thug who has been hired to knock me over the head at the first opportunity and drag me away to the first boat to Tevinter!”

Mira clutches her arms tighter around herself to stifle a twitch. “Would he do that?” It comes out low and harsher than she intends, and his pewter eyes flicker down, taking in the white-knuckled grip she has on her own arms.

“No--though I certainly wouldn’t put it past him.” 

Mira looks away. “It...seems like there is bad blood between you.”

Dorian’s laugh is harsh. “An interesting turn of phrase. My parents do not approve of my choices...and I do not approve of theirs. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

“Do you want to go?”

“Hah. No. But we might as well see what this is all about. I do so hate a mystery. If it turns out to be a trap, we can simply kill everyone and leave. You’re good at that.” He doesn’t mean to be so biting--sometimes he just can’t help it, the words come out with twisted intent, glib and harmful. You can take the Altus out of Tevinter, but you can’t take the vile Tevinter out of the Altus, unfortunately.

Mira’s eyes flash at him grimly, a slash of expression across her lips. “I suppose I am, at that. Let’s go, then. I’ll--I need to take care of a few things, before we leave. I’ll meet you in the morning.”

He watches her leave, feeling peculiar watching her control slip so obviously. This isn’t the distant unhappiness that afflicted her after her berserk reaction to the Seeker’s brush with a terror demon. This has the flavor of old rage and hurt. Bitterness. Dorian rubs at the point of his chin, carefully not thinking how very familiar it all seems.

* * *

 

Mira spends a quiet hour going to pieces in the farthest, highest, most deserted corner of the keep that she can find. When she is finished, her face scrubbed raw on the hem of her tunic, her palms adorned with a matching set of deep crescent marks from her fingernails, the inside of her lower lip throbbing from being bitten, she goes to the War Room and calls her advisors together. There is calm resolve in her heart again.

She plans to accompany Dorian to Redcliffe, and she suspects her Commander will raise a fuss if she doesn’t have him well-occupied before she leaves.

And there are reports of in-fighting among her Trevelyan relatives in Ostwick, and she isn’t sure what to do about them. She knows she should task Josephine with handling it--but she doesn’t want them coddled, doesn’t want them sinking their politicking claws into her people. Josephine is too swayed by the importance of influence, and Mira may have a title and the cultured accent of a well-bred lady, but everything in her heart burns with rebellion. She thinks about sending Cullen, about his matter-of-fact martial approach to disputes--thinks about him amongst the Chantry vipers lurking in her family tree, the things that might be said about her in his presence, and quails. Perhaps not.

What she really wants to do is ask Leliana to send her agents, to instill some fear and respect and good sense--or at least self-preservation--amongst the grasping hordes, and to ask, quietly, privately, for word of the freehold and the welfare of the people. Before Dairsmuid, before Elyse’s death, before the Conclave, Mira spent the better part of her exile ranging through the Marches, unstintingly making use of the Fools to keep peace within the borders of Ostwick and the outlying areas. The Hidden Bann, the Hawk of the Marches: apostates and petitioners finding her deep in the forests west of Ostwick, when she and Elyse made time in the worst seasons to rest in her mother’s forgotten hunting lodge. She could have made a life like that--been content to remain an exile, until her father died, or was forced from power by the vying of her relatives or a neighboring freehold.

But Dairsmuid changed everything. Losing Elyse...well.

She makes a note to speak to Leliana later, before she leaves for Redcliffe. After her conversation with Cassandra, she knows the Spymaster must know exactly where things stand with her family. Hopefully she will be willing to handle the matter quietly.

Cullen she sends to Verchiel, smirking to herself at his long-suffering sigh. He is everything she needs in this moment--unaware of the darkness at the heart of her, indulging his wry humor for her benefit. “Just a gentle reminder of our force and our proximity, Commander. Imagine Sera’s gratitude!”

“Oh I am, I assure you. That’s what concerns me.” His scarred lip curls in that charming rueful smile, and Mira feels her chest tighten with breathless feeling. Void take him, why is he so damnably beautiful when he smiles?

“At least it’s not bees,” she volleys back, her own smile creeping across her lips unbidden. 

A soft chuckle and a slight incline of the head from the Commander, conceding the point. “Small mercies from a benevolent Maker.” His rich voice is filled with good humor, and...fondness?

Leliana is watching this exchange with growing interest, sensing a new tenor to their banter. Were she standing nearer to Josie, she would elbow her to get her attention, but as it is, the Ambassador has her head bowed and is scribbling intently, completely oblivious.

A moment passes, two, as the Inquisitor gazes at her Commander, before she realizes that silence has settled and how obvious her regard must be. She flushes across the broad plane of her cheeks, and curses under her breath, directing her gaze back to the map.

“I think that should take care of things for now. Leliana, if you’ll walk with me?”

“Of course, Inquisitor.” 

Mira tries not to sweat at the significance of the Spymaster’s glance.

* * *

 

She launches into business before Leliana can venture any commentary. “I have a request, if you’ve agents to spare. You know that members of my House have been creating issues for us in Ostwick and elsewhere in the Marches. I would rather not involve Josephine--I made a mistake allowing her to intimate the promise of future favor, and I don’t want her attentions diverted from developing our relationships in Orlais. The Winter Palace operation takes priority right now.”

Leliana nods silently, unsurprised by this admission. Miraphora Trevelyan may be a lady, but her tactics are not that of a noble. From the first time she stood before them at the War Table she has been far more comfortable relying on Cullen’s military advice or the stealth and deception of Leliana’s own methods.

“Perhaps a...pointed reminder of the importance of good works and  _noblesse oblige_  in these trying times,” Leliana murmurs with a sidelong glance. “I’m sure Mother Giselle could recommend a Sister or two to send with messages of goodwill and fellowship.”

Mira shoots her a quick, searching glance, uncertain why she is still surprised by the breadth and depth of the woman’s knowledge. Leliana takes her arm in a familiar manner, leaning close as a friend might to share gossip, a warm smile curving her lips.

“The Divine was always careful to keep that one close--and not only because of her good works. I will see what I can discover of her contacts with Tevinter. Now laugh, my lady. I have told you a most salacious bit of gossip.” Leliana’s hands squeeze her arm in a gentle reminder.

Mira throws back her head with an overdone shocked laugh, then claps her free hand to her mouth with an artlessly self-conscious gesture, glancing apologetically to the nearest covey of Orlesian ladies. “Apologies,  _mes amies_.”

Leliana’s very slightly arched brow is eloquent of amused approval.  _A bit much, but not bad_.

Mira shoots her the barest flutter of a sly wink, returns the slight arm clasp as she disengages. Leliana watches the rangy Marcher stroll from the Hall and collect Varric on the way out the doors, then heads up to her rookery. She will send a crow to her agent in Redcliffe--just in case.

* * *

 

She hasn’t been in Redcliffe since the operation to liberate the mages. The town seems largely unchanged--though there are more acknowledgements of her presence among the tradesmen and villagers.  

“Well if there are Venatori involved, they certainly know we’re coming,” Dorian observes dryly at her side.

Mira’s lips thin with resolve. “Good. I want them to know I’m coming for them...whoever awaits.”

Dorian shoots her an inscrutable glance. Varric and Iron Bull remain silent at their backs as they approach the Gull and Lantern. The alley in front of the tavern is strangely deserted, and Mira tips her head at Varric. The dwarf detours smoothly to find a high vantage, Bianca waiting patiently over his shoulder. The Iron Bull settles his muscular bulk on a bench beside the tavern door, a more obvious deterrent, his polearm pitched against his shoulder.

He gives Mira a slight nod. “Boss.” His glance flicks over Dorian, but the usual taunting banter is absent. The Inquisitor has never taken The Iron Bull with her into the field before, though they’ve spent plenty of time talking, and her energy is off today. He’s not entirely sure what they’re doing here in Redcliffe, but he’s sure as shit it involves the Vint--and neither the mage nor the Boss are happy about it.

“Bull,” she acknowledges, before checking her holdout dagger is loose in the sheath at the small of her back, and pushing open the tavern door.

If the street outside was quiet, the tavern itself is deserted. There’s no sound from the kitchens, no companionable clink of glass and hornware or ceramic from the common room, no footsteps from the upstairs chambers. Mira takes stock of the common area as they step farther into the gloom, her yellow eyes sharp and expecting an ambush now.

Dorian halts just inside the door, one brow arched. “Well. No one’s here? This doesn’t bode well.”

Mira takes a quick step to flank him, hearing the scrape of a boot sole on stone towards the stairwell to the upper chambers. The hilt of her dagger is warming under her hand.

“...Dorian.” 

The voice is older, cultured. The man who stands in the archway of the stairs is compact, medium height, dressed in a crisp uniform of sorts. His face is still hidden mostly in shadow.

Dorian shifts his weight, turning to face him. His expressive voice is flat. “Father.” His eyes flicker around the empty interior of the tavern again. He should have known. This has the stamp of Halward Pavus’ imperious manipulation all over it. “So the “family retainer” was just...what? A smoke screen? To lure me here?”

The cultured tones convey regret. “So you were told.” The man’s dark eyes rest on his son, before turning to Mira. “Well, no matter. I regret that you were involved in our family matters, Inquisitor. It was not my intent.”

“No, of course not.” Dorian interjects before Mira can respond with more than an arched brow. “The great Halward Pavus couldn’t be seen with the dangerous Inquisitor, what would the Magisterium think?” The Altus took a step closer, advancing on his father angrily. “What is this, father? Ambush? Kidnapping? A Venatori plot? Have you sunk so low?”

“Venatori! Dorian...” The Pavus patriarch shakes his head, sighs heavily, glances at Mira. “This is how it has always been,” he says regretfully, as though Mira would commiserate, as though Dorian is an errant child misbehaving before mixed company.

Mira feels heat burning across her chest, and her hand tightens around the hilt of her dagger, feeling the leather wrappings and cording leave imprints on her palm. Fathers. Fathers and sons, fathers and daughters. Liars all. Her lip curls. “Considering you lied to get him here, Dorian has every right to be furious. If you believe that I am here as your ally, Magister Pavus, or complicit in your plans, I must disabuse you of that notion forthwith.”

Dorian turns his head sharply to stare at her, pewter eyes startled at her aggressive tone. Her eyes are burning gold, the skin over her cheekbones thinned with strong emotion. He had known, but perhaps not understood, the cause of her breakdown in the Hinterlands, the intense protection and responsibility she felt for the Seeker, for her regular and most stalwart companions. She was not like most leaders, or nobility. She felt too strongly, she was...friendly...with her subordinates. But to see that quality in her now, for him--she has rarely taken him from the confines of the Skyhold library into the field, though she often finds him there, asking after books and his research. He is not a Cassandra, always at her side in battle. Why?

“You--you don’t know the half of it. But perhaps you should.” 

“Dorian--there’s no need to--”

“Need? No, father. No need. But I think the Inquisitor has earned the right to know, don’t you?” His eyes narrow, watching her. “I prefer the company of men.” No reaction. “My father--” He flicks a glance full of loathing at the man, “disapproves.” The look he gives her wonders if she might as well--she can see him thinking it, waiting.

“That’s what this is about? Who you sleep with?” She can’t help the dismissal in her tone, though it is scarcely productive, here. This can’t be all it’s about, either. “And here you’ve been telling me all this time that the Imperium is civilized, Dorian,” she drawls it, raking her gaze over Halward Pavus scornfully.  

The Magister’s expression shutters darkly, eyes burning like two dark coals. His disapproval is palpable, and his resentment of her attitude even moreso. He directs his gaze to his son. “This display is uncalled for. If--”

“No, it is called for. You called for it by luring me here.”

Maker, she recognizes the rhythm of their speech. The interjections, the struggle to control the flow of the argument--the uncontrollable urge to disrupt her father’s tirade, to rebel, to resist, to fight, even knowing it would only make things worse--only prolong the encounter. Because the alternative...

\--  _What do you want me to SAY? Please, STOP. STOP. PLEASE._  --

Dorian looks at her again. “My dear Inquisitor, this is the civilization of Tevinter. We are all part of a breeding program driven by nationalist sentiment. Every Tevinter family has one goal--to produce the perfect mage, the perfect mind, the perfect body--the perfect leader. And I--oh I am the culmination of that--look at me, how could I not be?--in all way but one.” His mouth curls, withers with sadness and distaste, as he looks at his father. “I will not--I cannot--I refuse to be other than myself. I will not--hide my aberrant nature. And for that, my family will not forgive me.” 

Mira holds Dorian’s gaze searchingly, ignoring Halward. This hurt goes deep. “Is that all?” It’s not dismissive--she sees him understand what she is really asking. Sees him understand that she knows to ask.

His mouth trembles a moment and then his lips press together hard. His gaze burns. “No. That’s not all it’s about.” His voice is harsh.

“Dorian--please. If you’ll only listen to m--” Pavus’ voice is beginning to rise, his tone harder. 

“What? So you can spout more convenient lies? This isn’t Tevinter, father. This isn’t politics. THIS IS MY LIFE.” Dorian stalks toward his father, and Mira shifts forward, still prepared to leap, to defend. “HE taught me to hate blood magic,” Dorian says to Mira over his shoulder, his voice rising as he advances. “’The resort of weak minds’ he called it. Those are HIS words!” He stops in his advance, swaying, and turns away, pacing, trying to control himself. “But what was the first thing you did, when your precious heir refused to pretend for the rest of his life?” His voice thickens at the end, his fists clenched at his sides as he whirls back to face his father. “You tried to change me!”

The way Dorian’s voice breaks on the emphasis sends a stab of pain through Mira’s chest. Halward Pavus opens his lying mouth, and she wants to shadowstep across the common room and put her dagger to his throat--wants to make him helpless, but she holds steady, her eyes hard. 

“I only wanted what was best for you.” Still so full of regret, of sense--oh he lies so much better than her father. He is a consummate monster. 

Dorian’s finger stabs toward his father’s chest. “You wanted what was best for you. For your fucking legacy! Anything for that--any pain you could inflict, any suffering I would bear, any damage you might wreak, would be worth it.”

He whirls away, stalking to the bar, hands braced on the edge of the counter, shoulders tensed. Mira hurries to his side, one eye on Pavus, watching--expecting an explosion.

Pavus’ mouth twists, a mask of unfeeling settling over his features. “You have always been so melodramatic, Dorian. So selfish. I suppose your mother is to blame for that.”

\--  _You foolish little bitch. We’ll see how that fucking mouth of yours is after you’ve been in this hole for a week. I’ll find a man who will keep you under control and then we’ll see if you challenge me again._  --

“That is enough.” This is her Inquisitor voice--deadly, quiet, still as the center from which her arrow flies. They are not children. They are warriors. Her eyes burn molten gold as she rakes them over Halward Pavus from head to toe and then dismisses him with flared nostrils and a curled lip. Her hand is gentle but firm on Dorian’s arm, feeling the fine tremors running through him.

“That is enough. We are leaving.”

She doesn’t look back--and doesn’t look to see if Dorian does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on twitter and tumblr @lustfulpasiphae


	2. Til I'm Happy to Be Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don’t talk about fathers, masks, or the lies that make the past bearable. They don’t talk about pain, or betrayal, or the way memory twists within until truth is a vague simulacrum at best, to protect the mind without. They don’t talk about family.

The next evening, Leliana is waiting for her in the Grand Hall when she comes back from talking to Cassandra about Seeker business. Well, Mira assumes she’s waiting for her, because she’s lounged at Varric’s table, and there’s a coolly amused smile on Leliana’s face, and the dwarf is looking for the nearest exit. 

Mira arches a brow, cants a hip. “Well, this certainly looks like trouble.” 

Varric shoots her a look that clearly telegraphs “Save me.” She grins toothily. Leliana stands, smoothing down her tunic. “Inquisitor. I thought we might walk?”

News, then. Mira inclines her head, lets the Spymaster take her arm, reminded of Elyse. “What was that about?”

A small private smile hides in the corners of Leliana’s lips. “Just...exchanging stories.”

Mira’s brow hikes a bit higher, but she lets it go, holding the door to the gardens open with studied gallantry. They take the dirt path through the center, avoiding the crowded benches along the gallery.

It is chill in the courtyard where the setting sun is blocked by the high walls, but pretty. Green and fecund despite the elevation and isolation in the heart of the Frostbacks. Mira tilts her head back, eyes closed for a moment, taking a deep breath that draws the cool air deep into her lungs. Winter apples, crisp leaves, a hint of oakmoss--

Her eyes slit open, scanning the gallery to her right, catching a glimpse of red through the door of the small chapel.  _Ah_.

At her side, Leliana follows her gaze, noting the sharpening of her features--reflecting that she is like a stooping hawk at times, all huntress and instinct. A sliver of red surcoat and silvered armor is just visible through the small chapel door.  _That will be interesting if anything comes of it_ , she thinks. She suspects Josie would wish the Inquisitor remain unattached for political reasons, and is inclined to think that eventually they will all have to address the spectre of the Trevelyans in the corner, but Miraphora Antoinette Trevelyan is not a noble’s noble except in the rare instances where she wants to be. Leliana imagines she cares little for class or any political expectations of her office.

“I have had word regarding our earlier conversation.”

Mira hums to express interest and attention, but is still looking through the door of the chapel as they amble by. Leliana lowers her head to hide a small smirk behind the fall of her hair. 

“It appears that our good Mother has contacts in Minrathous--a member of the Imperial Chantry among them. I believe this is the connection Pavus used to reach out to her here.”

Those yellow eyes swing back to her, suddenly intent. “That seems like a scandalous, if not sacrilegious, acquaintance for a southern Chantry Mother.”

The Spymaster shrugs one shoulder slightly. “I will admit it explains the arrested pace of her rise in the Chantry ranks--she was always a bit of a radical, though generally towards a charitable end. She has been a Mother for a very long time, without advancement. And yet she is well-connected.”

A slight wrinkle appears between Mira’s eyes. “Do you think she’d ever make a bid for Divine?”

Leliana is surprised that the Inquisitor is thinking in endgame scenarios--it’s not a trait she expresses often in the War Room. “I do not know. It’s possible. Would you like me to look further into her relationships in the North?”

“If you would. I don’t like receiving covert messages from foreign dignitaries that don’t come through my own agents.” She smiles wryly at the Spymaster. “I’m sure you don’t either.”

Leliana’s lips twitch. “As you say, Inquisitor.” They have circled back around, and if Leliana is honest with herself, she has guided their ambling past the chapel again deliberately. She notes the way those hawkish eyes stray again. “Feeling a need for prayer?”

Mira snorts, wrenches her eyes away from the temptingly open door. “A need for a stiff drink, more like.” She smiles sidelong at her Spymaster. “I thank you for your assistance in this matter, Leliana. I will see you in the War Room.”

“Until then, Inquisitor.”

* * *

 

Mira goes to the library in search of Dorian so that her feet don’t stray back towards the chapel and its single, devout occupant. She fully intends to take him up on his offer of a drink--and is very hopeful that he has had better success than she in locating decent liquor in this place. Or wine. Sweet Maker, what she wouldn’t do for a decent wine.

This is her foremost thought as she ascends the stairs to the library, so when she spies the elaborate peak of Mother Giselle’s hat as soon as she emerges from the archway, her mood sours. The older woman is standing opposite Dorian, and they are engaged in a heated discussion.

Mira approaches, saving her intrusive “What’s going on here?” for the last moment, watching the guilty expression flicker across the Chantry Mother’s face and feeling annoyed with herself for being such a soft touch that anyone with the semblance of care for the plight of refugees and victims had passed her initial inspection in Haven.

“It seems our Revered Mother is concerned about my “undue influence” over you,” Dorian drawls, arms crossed over his chest, and managing somehow to look bored, amused, and mildly insulted all at once. The charms of a superbly-worn mustache.

Mira arches a brow at Giselle, whose expression is full of very secular annoyance, for a Chantry woman. 

“It is just concern. Your Worship, you must know how this looks. A mage from Tevinter, the bosom companion of Andraste’s Herald. The rumors alone--”

“I am surrounded by heroes and outcasts, apostates and criminals, and the rumors are chiefly concerned with a man whose only notable feature is that he left the privileged life of an Altus behind to join my cause and provide aid against the Venatori?”

Dorian makes a choked sound of protest at the “only notable feature” bit, and she shoots him a quelling glance. He purses his lips at her, but directs his gaze back to Giselle without another sound.

“Your Worship, the people do not know anything of this man--and neither do I. We have only centuries of evidence of the dangers of Tevinter and the practices of their mages. Until the people know otherwise, the rumors will continue.”

There’s nothing in Giselle’s tone to suggest any special meaning to this statement, but Leliana’s intelligence has provided Mira with unexpected ammunition. A slow smile curls in the corner of her lips--and it is not a kind smile. “Perhaps you could tell me more of these rumors, Mother Giselle. You seem to be well-acquainted with their source.”  _To know so surely that they will continue, and the tenor of their message._  

Mother Giselle’s face goes carefully blank. “I...see. I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man’s intentions. If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly ask forgiveness of you both.” She bows her head, backs away, and turns in retreat.

Dorian looks nonplussed at the abrupt turn of events, watching Mother Giselle’s exit. “Well. That’s something.” What, though, that’s the question. He glances sidelong at Mira, finds her studying him closely.

“She didn’t get to you, did she?” 

“No,” he scoffs. “It takes more than thinly-veiled accusations to get to me, my dear.” He seems amused that she should even ask.

Mira hums to herself quietly, rubbing at the palm of her Marked hand in an unconscious gesture. “I just hope she doesn’t do anything.”

Dorian frowns. “Do? My dear, she can’t do anything. Yours is the only good opinion I care about in this forsaken place.” She’s still rubbing that acursed hand of hers, and he turns to face her fully, surprised to find that he dreads the answer to his next question. “But I should ask...do the rumors bother you?”

“What? No, of course not.” Mira dismisses Giselle from her mind and tilts her head, meeting Dorian’s eyes honestly. “I just don’t like daggers pointed at the backs of my fr--my people.”

“Daggers! Goodness, Inquisitor, you credit the good Mother with an unusual degree of danger.” 

Mira shrugs noncommittally, glance sidling away. There’s no reason to explain. Either Giselle will make a move in opposition to her, or she won’t. Either way, Leliana is on the hunt now.

Dorian doesn’t fidget--perish the thought, a Pavus would never do something so common--but he does shift his weight a bit, hesitantly. “Perhaps this is odd to say--but I think of you as a friend. And I have precious few of those. I certainly never expected to find one here.”

Goodness. The look in those yellow hawk eyes. If Dorian were the sort to blush, or to feel anything at all from the glance of a woman, he’d be quite affected. 

Mira blinks at him, truly caught off-guard. “I--”

“No--no confessions, if you please. I detest them.” He waves her response away, back to being suave and debonair and careless. “I just wanted you to know that I will stand with you--against Corypheus, my countrymen, or even spurious rumor.” His sly glance suggests that rumor might be about anything.

Mira laughs, eyes crinkling wryly. “If those were the only sort of rumors I had to contend with, I’d be well content. You know--I had almost forgotten, in the excitement. I came up here with a purpose.” She gives a courtly bow, one arm crooked at the small of her back, the other hand extended. Her golden eyes sparkle and flare with mischief. “Would you care to join me at the Herald’s Rest for a drink?”

If there is one thing Dorian is skilled at--aside from being an unparalleled mage, a charming conversationalist, a deft courtier, amongst countless other things--it is giving as good as he gets. “My dear Inquisitor, I thought you should never ask. And it so happens I have recently received a shipment of Tevinter zinfandel, so we may even drink in comfort for once!” He takes her hand and kisses it with a charming caress of his mustachioed lips, and gestures for her to precede him down the stairs. “After you, my dear. I do enjoy watching you walk away.”

Mira’s raucous laugh startles a flight of crows up in the rafters, but she doesn’t care. She is happy as she struts down the stairs.

* * *

 

They don’t talk about fathers, masks, or the lies that make the past bearable. They don’t talk about pain, or betrayal, or the way memory twists within until truth is a vague simulacrum at best, to protect the mind without. They don’t talk about family.

They talk about wine. They indulge in ludicrous one-up-man-ship as they try to name the priciest, rarest vintages they have sampled. Dorian wins that contest in quantity, though Mira shares, hushed, the name of a particularly coveted Rivaini blend that has his eloquent brows lifting with surprise. 

“My dear, that is simply not possible, unless you have dined with the Queen of Saba herself...”

Mira lifts her glass--she’s not entirely sure where Dorian produced them from, but he was as willing to drink wine from a horn cup as from an old boot--and lowers her lashes demurely. “Well...or one of her ministers,” she murmurs, before sipping appreciatively at the cabernet they have moved on to from the truly unparalleled zinfandel. The nose on this is enough to make her swoon--and she did, at her first sip, for effect, and because when Dorian laughs genuinely it is incredibly infectious and--she would never tell him this: cute.

They are holed up at a table on the second level of the tavern--normally Mira likes to be on the highest floor of a building, if not on the roof, or else on the open ground, but the wine is very good as is the company, and there is a window next to their table, and she can see the stars frost-bright through the glazing if she wants to. 

Dorian is giving her a squinting look of incredulity, not sure whether to take her at her word or not. Mira cackles, downs the dregs of her wine, pours more with a deft twist of her wrist to catch the droplets at the mouth of the bottle, holds it questioningly tipped over Dorian’s nearly-empty glass, and pours at his nod.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she says, lambent golden eyes on the deep blood red stream of wine. “I’d be more at ease in a Rivaini caravan or a Sabean court than Orlesian society. But don’t tell my ambassador. She already despairs of me.”

Dorian cocks his head. “Worried about the Empress’ court? I’ve heard your Orlesian--you speak it as though it’s your mother tongue.”

A strange smile quirks her lips. “My mother’s tongue,” she says gently, precisely, as if correcting him. 

It doesn’t surprise him. She’s leggy and tall like a Marcher, and her cheekbones are broad and flat, but those lips were never put by the Maker on anything but an Orlesian face. Put her in one of those ridiculous masks the frog-eaters were so fond of, and you’d never know her people had come howling out of the barbarian wilds of the North.

“Well, in that case, you must simply do what I do, if you cannot remember whether to bow or bend the leg to a Vicomtesse, or to kiss the hand of a Chevalier...”

One of those dark brows arches, her mouth and nose buried in the wide well of her glass. “Mmhm?”

Dorian’s lips twitch. “You simply overwhelm them with your charm and wit in their horrid tongue, of course.”

A sly smile steals across her lips, and she lounges back in her chair, one arm draped carelessly over the back of the chair next to her, hand raised and gesticulating broadly. “ _Je t’inventerai des mots insensés, que tu comprendras_.”

Dorian chuckles, catching a word or two, barely enough to get the gist of this vague sentiment. He speaks passable Court Orlesian, which is precise and exacting, and bears little resemblance to Mira’s drawling phrasing. “It’s all qunlat to me, darling. But this is precisely what I mean. Look at you. You’ll have them eating from your very capable hands.”

There’s a spark in those golden eyes, and the conversation takes a slightly abrupt segue. Dorian is mildly terrified at what her mind must look like inside. “Speaking of hands,” she drawls, gazing down into her wine for a moment, taking a deep draught, then pinning him with her glance. “I wonder what capable hands we can get you into here?”

Dorian coughs and splutters, his wine going down the wrong way. “Old Gods preserve me. You may prove to be a menace, you know.” He snags the neck of the bottle as she reaches for it, pulling it back toward his side of the table. “No more of this, if we’re going to get into that nonsense.”

Her brows draw together and she purses her lips in a slight pout. “ _Merde_. I was only trying to help.”

“I will have you know I am quite capable of helping myself, thank you very much. Now finish this off. I have another bottle here, and I refuse to return to the library until it’s gone as well.” 

A sudden frown crinkles her brow. “You’re not--Dorian, you’re not sleeping in the library, are you?”

Dorian is beginning to understand why that rustic Commander of hers utters a fervent “Maker’s breath” every time he lays eyes on her. She truly is a menace, and is clearly made worse by drink. “Of course not, my dear. But I certainly intend to read a bit before seeking my bed tonight.” The cold pallet in the rafters of an old ruin, more like. And so what if he sleeps in the wing-back chair in the library more often than not? It’s a far sight warmer there, cozier, than a hard plank floor and the dubious unwashed company of whichever Inquisition soldiers have bunked down nearby that evening. It’s not his ideal, but he will endure, and tell himself that he has endured worse. She can hardly be blamed--if she knows even a tenth of the minutiae of logistics required to outfit and house her army and companions, he would be mightily surprised. 

She takes this at face value, thankfully, swirling the dregs of her wine, and downing them enthusiastically. “Of course,” she murmurs to herself. 

The strains of a new song begin downstairs in the common, and Mira rolls her eyes. “I swear she sings this just to drive me mad.”

Dorian arches a brow questioningly. 

“Enchanters,” Mira explains, sliding from her chair and stepping to the railing to peer down below at Maryden. “It’s catchy, and she knows it. But it drives the folks who didn’t like me bringing the mages in as allies wild.”

Dorian joins her at the railing, the new bottle in his hand, and tops off her empty glass. “Well, she wouldn’t be a very effective bard if she didn’t know how to stir strong emotion,” he says, surprising even himself with his diplomacy. He’ll never admit it, but he rather likes the song. And he can tell by the tapping of Mira’s fingers on the railing that she does too--if not the trouble it causes her in the court of public opinion.

He catches her eye, smirks slightly, lifts one brow. She laughs. “Politics,” they say together.

She works her way rather quicker than she should through this glass and another of the wine, singing occasionally, her voice a mezzo soprano with a slight burr from the wine. She laughs her way through Maryden’s needling ballad to Sera, wheedles another glass of wine from Dorian, then wends her way down the stairs, shooting him a backward glance full of mischief. “Let’s see if I can’t give the rumor mill some new material,” she purrs throatily.

Dorian follows her to the base of the stairs, and leans against the banister, feeling very warm from the wine as he watches her approach the bard. His eyes widen the slightest bit as she teasingly drags a fingertip down the woman’s cheek, and strums a trilling chord across her lute, leaning close to whisper something. 

She’s mad if she’s concerned about Halamshiral and the Empress’ court. She’ll have those haughty bastards swallowing their own tongues if this is the persona she brings to bear. Put a fan in her hand and a mask on her face, and...well. Bind her breasts and even he might be affected.

Maryden’s startlement slides easily into pleasure, and she settles her lute, lithe fingers fiddling with knobs and strings to tease a different tenor from the instrument. Mira settles onto a stool beside her, straddling it brazenly, her golden eyes soft like hammered sovereigns. Dorian glances around the common room, taking stock of the crowd. It’s early yet--it was barely past the dinner hour when they began, and he spots familiar faces. Varric, the writerly dwarf with his fingers in half the Orzammar pies on the surface of Thedas, is watching with slightly widened eyes--and they only get wider as Mira speaks, a little lower than her normal cultured tones.

“Maryden is going to indulge me with a Marcher tune, friends. It’s an old tune, but a new tune as well. Some say it tells a tale of an apostate and his love--but it began to make the rounds of taverns and the drinking hells of the ports around about the time of the destruction of Kirkwall. It may only be the ballad of a tragic love--but it is left to the listener to say.”

Dorian watches Varric bury his face in his tankard with interest. Maryden strums a chord, then stills her fingers, looking expectantly to Mira.

The Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, Chosen, scion of House Trevelyan, opens her mouth, her golden eyes falling half-lidded with sultry intent:

“Oh Lord, oh Lord, what have I done? I’ve fallen in love with a man on the run. Oh Lord, oh Lord, I’m begging you please, don’t take that sinner from me. Oh~ don’t take that sinner from me...”

Maryden’s strumming punctuates the silence.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord, what do I do? I’ve fallen for someone who’s nothing like You. He’s raised on the edge of the Void’s backbone, oh I just want to take him home, I just want to take him home...”

Maryden picks out, pizzicato, the bridge, as Mira’s voice soars in a soft, mournful harmony. Dorian feels chills creep down his neck.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord, he’s somewhere between a hangman’s knot and three mouths to feed. There wasn’t a wrong or a right he could choose, he did what he had to do--Oh! he did what he had to do~”

Varric has busied himself with picking very intently at a gouge in the table.

As the song draws to a close, Maryden’s last ringing chords fading, Mira breathes rhythmically into the silence of the tavern: 

“Don’t care if he’s guilty, don’t care if he’s not, he’s good and he’s bad and he’s all that I’ve got. Oh Lord, oh Lord, I’m begging you please: don’t take this sinner from me, don’t take this sinner from me~”

There is a stunned silence as voice and lute fade away. Then: hands clapping, fists on tables, feet stomping in approval. 

Mira flushes across her broad-spanning cheeks, her eyes glittering. She bows from her stool, one arm sweeping out with a flourish, her chestnut hair swinging forward, falling across her face in a disorderly tangle which she pushes back impatiently. 

A deep, quiet voice from the side of the fireplace: “You got any more songs in that belly of yours, Boss?”

Mira laughs richly, drinks the last of the wine in her glass, sets it carefully on the stones of the hearth. “Bull, for you, I will sing the best song.”

Dorian relaxes against the banister, feeling relegated to observer, and not minding much as he drinks from the bottle. The Qunari, “The Iron Bull,” because of course he insists on the article, as though the name is a title, is watching Mira with an entertained smile, his cat-green eye slitted with pleasure as Maryden begins with the opening bars of “Nightingale’s Eyes.”

Dorian isn’t exactly a student of lip-reading, but he’s fairly certain that the Iron Bull breathes a heartfelt “ah, redheads,” as Mira’s voice soars into “Nightingale’s eyes, what secret lies in their worth~” 

And thus the night passes.

Eventually, Mira cedes the floor, encouraging Maryden to invite other tavern patrons up to sing their own favorite ballads and lays. She returns to Dorian’s side, taking his arm with little concern for personal space or boundaries, and drags him to Bull’s side, taking advantage of his protests to steal the bottle of wine from him and take a long draught from the mouth before handing it back imperiously. 

She gives them both a very stern look--or what she must believe is a stern look. Her golden eyes are hazed and spangled with good feeling and drink, her full lips curved with a silly smile. “Now. I must away to my bed, dear serah, and The Iron Bull,” she says with studied gravity. “But I must insist that you carry on without me, at least until the break of dawn. It is a moral impera--ah. Imperative!” She beams at them vaguely, turns on her heel with a slight wobble, and stalks from the tavern.

The men exchange a glance: dubious on the part of Dorian, speculative on the part of The Iron Bull.

* * *

 

The air outside is chill and dark, the torches widely spaced. Mira is drunk, warm, stumbling. There are songs in her heart, in her head, pouring from her lips. She spins in the middle of the bailey, uncertain where she is, certain that she will never find her bed, but uncaring. She will sleep in the stables if she can find them. The night is beautiful and cool on her heated cheeks, and she has forgotten the Mark on her hand, the memories of darkness that drove her to Redcliffe at Dorian’s side. She is brand new like a silver coin, clean and crisp like the night.

The song that trips from her lips is sultry, sensuous, as she slows her spin. “ _Ne me quitte pas, il faut oublier, tout peut s’oublier, qui s’enfuit déjà...”_

Her outstretched hand strikes metal, and she exclaims a soft “Oh,” her spin cutting short.

The night seems to continue spinning around her, though, the stars high above spangled and whirling. A warm hand wraps around hers, catching her fingers. Calluses of a swordsman, gentle caress of a lover. She is confused and disoriented.

“Serah?” she breathes, her accent heavy with Orlais and the song singing in her head.

A shadow looms above her, and she quails, before a voice murmurs, filled with concern: “Inquisitor?”

Ah. This voice. She would recognize this voice in darkness, in snowstorm, in the Void. 

“ _Mon cher commandant! Comment allez-vous_?”  

The fingers on hers tighten slightly, the shadow of him leaning closer. He turns her a half-turn, and the nearest torch flares gentle light over them, catching in the deep amber wells of his eyes, barely visible around the wide-flared pupils. “Mira? Are you well?” His voice is full of concern, and her heart aches.

A sharp voice echoes in the back of her mind, pointing out that she must look quite mad, crooning in Orlesian, forgetting her Common tongue in her drunken stupor. She has clearly concerned him--it is unacceptable. “Apologies, Commander. I am--” she chuckles self-consciously, “a little worse for drink.”

There. That is coherent, couched in acceptable self-derision. 

She watches the symphonies that are written in the curve of his lips, the arias and descants that flutter and settle and disperse before he finds an expression that he thinks is acceptable: a slight, reserved smile. His eyes are dark, shadowed by his deep orbits. She reaches up, unthinking, and strokes her free hand through the fur of his surcoat, finds her fingertips brushing against his throat, the harsh rasp of the stubble trailing down from his jaw and chin. 

Andraste wept, he is beautiful.

His skin is warm against her cool fingertips. “My lady.” He clears his throat, his expression becoming determined. He tucks the hand he has caught in his into the crook of his elbow. 

A vague corner of her mind notes that normally he is wearing gloves, but that he is dressed down at this late hour, surcoat and gambeson, but no armor. It’s the least she’s ever seen him wearing--normally he is concealed beneath stones-worth of steel or silverite. But now--Maker. He is beautiful, his shoulders could blot out her world if he were any closer. She wishes she were shorter, not so damnably tall and rangy, her eyes nearly on a level with his.

“My lady, may I escort you to your quarters?” He is so polite, no censure of her drunken and clearly disordered state.

There is a point in drunkenness where a woman may lie to herself, and say “I will not remember this, and he will pretend.” Mira embraces it: it’s as good as a spare crate in a corner during an altercation for cover--and she is very good at hiding.  

“Serah,  _s'il vous plaît_.” She gestures vaguely ahead of them on the path. She has no earthly idea where she is going--her sense of direction in this keep is never strong even when she’s sober and there’s light to steer by.

He huffs a soft laugh, his free hand resting on hers where it sits in the crook of his leather-clad elbow. “You know, my lady Herald, that I speak maybe two words in Orlesian, and they aren’t for polite company.”

She pats his hand consolingly. “That you certainly understood from context.”

“Perhaps.” When she glances up, he is staring down at her, the attraction she knows is between them clear in his eyes. 

She twirls away from him, trilling out a passionate “ _On a vu souvent rejaillir le feu de l’ancien volcan qu’on croyait trop vieux_!”

He keeps hold of her hand, though the rest of her is all apart, a dancer, and she is the only force that reels herself back into him, with a soft, heartfelt, “ _Ne me quitte pas_.”

She smiles up at him, still once more at his side, her ardor contained. “S _'il vous plaît, et merci._ The things a man must know in any language _.”_

He is caught in her smile against his will. “Please, I think. And?”

She sways close--they are in the doorway of the Great Hall, but it is empty of the usual hordes of Orlesian and Fereldan nobles. “Thank you. But--it is more: gratitude. Expressed. It sounds like mercy, in our harsh language, but it is--more. And less.”

His head is inclined, to give her attention, and it brings his lips within reach. She trembles for a moment, so very tempted to to kiss him. She steels herself with effort, her fingers tightening around his arm. 

Andraste wept, what would he do if she begged him to accompany her to her chambers? To her large, empty bed?

They are at the door of her quarters, their boots ringing emptily in the Great Hall. She embraces the pull of the wine, the song in her heart, dancing away from him, feeling dangerous. She sings to him, letting the wine drive her, trusting him to pretend in the morning when they face each other across the War Table, that this moment never happened, that her defenses were never lowered.

“ _Moi, je t’offrirai_  
Des perles de pluie  
Venues de pays  
Où il ne pleut pas.  
Je creuserai la terre  
Jusqu’après ma mort  
Pour couvrir ton corps  
D’or et de lumière.  
Je ferai un domaine  
Où l’amour sera roi,  
Où l’amour sera loi,  
Où tu seras roi.”  

His brows are furrowed as she twirls back to him, her golden eyes wide, spangled, fervent. She cradles his stubbled cheeks tenderly in her deft archer’s hands, lost in the moment. Her lips are a breath from his as she whispers, throatily:

“ _Ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas_ \--” and at last, her lips brushing his very faintly, barely touching, “ _ne me quitte pas_.”

His amber eyes are shot through with heat, startled and struck deep. He scarcely knows what to do with her, with the warmth of her hands on his face, her lips so achingly close to his. Her breath is scented with rich red wine and anise, and he is stunned like a bee smoked in a hive. Part of him wants to seize her in his arms and ravage her, but the better part of him is cautious--oh so cautious--and painfully aware that she is impaired by drink, and not herself.

Her lashes flutter down over those golden eyes, and she caresses her hand down his cheek. “ _Bonne nuit, ma commandant_.”  

He stands there, unmoving, for a long time after she disappears through the door to her chambers, scarce knowing whether he dreams or wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:   
> Je t’inventerai des mots insensés, que tu comprendras -- I’ll invent insane words for you, and you will understand them (This is a lyric from Ne Me Quitte Pas, I’m pretty sure. I was listening to it on loop because of where this chapter was headed, and this line fit the intent Mira had here)
> 
> Merde -- shit
> 
> Mon cher commandant! Comment allez-vous? -- My dear Commander! How are you?
> 
> s'il vous plaît -- Please (lit: If you please)
> 
> Ne me quitte pas -- Don’t leave me (for full lyrics to the song)
> 
> Bonne nuit, ma commandant. -- Good night, my Commander.
> 
> Song credits: “Devil’s Backbone” as performed by the Civil Wars, and “Ne Me Quitte Pas” as performed by Nina Simone (because obviously). 
> 
> Find me on twitter or tumblr @lustfulpasiphae


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